Chapter 20: Reason Precedes Literature, Principle Guides Confucianism [Seeking Votes]
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In the evening, Fang Xinghe was about to head to the cafeteria for one last free meal when Chen Danya forcibly dragged him to attend a farewell dinner for the Sprout Organization.
“You came to Modu alone; Auntie has to treat you to a good meal. Come on, don’t be shy.”
Well, alright then, he thought, and went along.
Upon arriving at the restaurant and scanning the room, he realized he was the only student present; none of the senior members were there.
Of course, not all the teachers were present either—about a dozen or so attended.
The only person Fang Xinghe recognized was Yu Hua, whose mischievous smile felt oddly familiar.
There were also names from Generation Z that he had never even heard of: Wang Meng, Ye Xin, Han Shaoyuan...
Well, actually, he didn’t know enough about any of them.
To avoid saying something wrong, he turned himself into a mute drum—only speaking when absolutely necessary.
Everyone knew about Fang Xinghe’s situation and assumed he was just a rebellious writer with an introverted and shy personality.
It wasn’t until Yu Hua praised him, “Fang Xinghe, your writing is amazing! How can it be so good? Seriously impressive!” that Fang Xinghe smiled for the first time.
“Thank you, Teacher Yu Hua. I also really enjoy your works like ‘Red Sorghum,’ ‘Alcohol Country,’ and ‘Big Breasts and Wide Hips’...”
Suddenly, the table fell silent, everyone baffled. When they finally processed it, a burst of laughter erupted.
“Damn! I’m going to challenge you to a drinking contest!” Yu Hua slid over, slinging an arm around Fang Xinghe’s neck, shouting playfully to scare the kid, “Only one of us can survive tonight!”
“Alright.”
Fang Xinghe set up two shot glasses calmly and reached for the bottle. “I can only drink two jin at most; all today’s quota is yours.”
“Duo Shao?!!”
Yu Hua’s expression visibly panicked as he hurriedly snatched the bottle, clutching it tightly, “I was just joking, can’t you tell? There’s no way I’d drink with a kid!”
“Hahaha...”
Everyone laughed heartily, slapping their thighs and teasing Yu Hua. He didn’t get offended and rambled about how writers dodging drinking contests wasn’t cheating, creating a lively atmosphere.
After this, they all gained a new impression of Fang Xinghe—beneath the polite exterior was a wild spirit, unafraid and unyielding.
The conversation then returned to Fang Xinghe’s essays, branching into topics about family life and related issues.
“It’s really nothing special,” Fang Xinghe brushed off their sympathy lightly, but welcomed criticism and discussion about his writing.
At a writers’ gathering, lofty debates and sharp tongues were expected.
Most attendees stuck to the topic, though two or three elders occasionally spoke with a condescending tone.
Fang Xinghe could distinguish right from wrong and remained patient.
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Until Teacher Wang Meng asked, “Why are you so familiar with Taoist classics?”
Fang Xinghe put down his chopsticks, picked up a pen, and drew a line in front of him.
This was how he explained:
“In my personal view, modern Chinese literary figures will most likely end up embracing Taoism rather than Confucianism.
The current pinnacle of Confucianism is either Zhang Zai’s Four Maxims of Hengqu or Wang Yangming’s unity of knowledge and action. The former exerts external influence, the latter focuses inward on self-cultivation. Both are powerful and grand but probably won’t suit future developments.
Next century, the world will change rapidly. Every country must strive to be first to catch the wave. The importance of science, IT, and research will soar. The future belongs to science students, not driven by literati.
Since politics is no longer the stage for scholars and mere self-cultivation is too passive, our generation will face the awkwardness of having some influence yet struggling to define our identity.
Is literature still important? It is, but it ranks behind development.
When a nation grows strong enough to satisfy spiritual needs, will literature surpass film, television, games, and music? That’s doubtful.
This is the era; what can individuals do?
Thus, our generation of writers is doomed never to be pure and destined to feel confused. Taoism fits perfectly in this context.
It embodies freedom and carefree spirit, wandering between engagement and withdrawal—seeking truth and practicality in the mundane world and tracing back to the fundamental spirit of the Chinese nation.
Confucianism feels constrained and rigid, while Taoism is genuine and unrestrained. In that freer, more romantic future, reason will precede literature, and Taoism will surpass Confucianism. I firmly believe this.
That’s why I prefer the Tao Te Ching over the Analects.
I don’t think I will become a traditional Chinese literatus. The new generation probably won’t have traditional literati anymore.”
After his words, a heavy silence fell over the table.
Yu Hua widened his eyes, turning his head awkwardly to look at Fang Xinghe.
Chen Danya crossed her arms, gently stroking the goosebumps on her skin.
Teachers Tie Ning and Shaoyuan exchanged glances, mouths agape.
Li Qigang held his glasses in his hands, nervously wiping them again and again.
Was it shocking?
Yes, but not convincing enough to be irrefutable.
Yet when such profound insight comes from a boy not even fourteen...
None of them, despite being top authors skilled in wordplay, could fully express the shock stirring inside.
“Xiao Fang, you…”
Wang Meng clicked his tongue, unable to continue.
“Damn…”
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Ye Zhaoyan muttered something, but aside from the curse, it was barely audible.
Meanwhile, Zhao Changtian, editor-in-chief of Sprout, pondered deeply: You seek the Way, we craft literature—does this imply we are fundamentally not on the same path?
He squinted at Fang Xinghe, but saw nothing.
It wasn’t until Wang Yali casually ruffled Fang Xinghe’s hair, excitedly praising, “As expected of my little brother, you really make me proud!” that the atmosphere began to ease.
Then, the group debated Taoism versus Confucianism for nearly two hours, shouting until their faces flushed.
Some believed Taoist ideas were indeed excellent; others insisted Confucian core values still held positive meaning.
Regarding literature’s future, the mood was generally pessimistic but laced with inexplicable hope.
Fang Xinghe did not join in again, quietly eating and drinking. The Huaiyang cuisine was exceptionally fresh—his most delicious meal since rebirth.
They broke up around 9:30 p.m., with everyone exchanging contact information with Fang Xinghe.
They planned a second gathering for karaoke.
Yu Hua continued clinging to Fang Xinghe, but he declined further participation, saying goodbye to go pack his things.
Chen Danya escorted him back to the hotel and, before parting, solemnly advised, “Keep studying, keep writing. Don’t waste your talent. If you ever need help, call me.”
Fang Xinghe hugged this motherly figure gratefully and whispered, “I will. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Auntie Chen.”
Chen Danya replied, “I’m even happier to have discovered you through this competition.”
Fang Xinghe smiled, waved off the praise, and headed upstairs.
Meanwhile, in a very trendy KTV, Wang Meng declared, “Fang Xinghe will definitely become an extraordinary person.”
“Damn!” Yu Hua rolled his eyes in frustration. “He’s already extraordinary now, okay?”
Chen Sihe sighed deeply, “He’s not from our generation, nor does he belong with his peers. He’s more like the future.”
Wang Yali’s excitement had lasted throughout and showed no sign of waning.
She shouted, “I’m even more eager for his novel now. I have a feeling it will be something completely unexpected—not necessarily great, but definitely unique!”
Everyone found this guess plausible and even made bets on possible directions.
For a group of leading authors and top literati to focus so intently on a young boy was rare indeed.
Yet none felt it strange, because with some people, just a few words and minutes of interaction embed an extraordinary aura deep in the mind, lingering long after, impossible to forget.